It’s 3 AM, and these are what feelings sound like. I'm in a room full of silence. My thoughts are way too loud to be in here. I’m dumbstruck no one in this house can hear them. My mouth is quiet, but my wrist is anxious to speak. It is anxious to bleed from this pen, like it wants to feel again.

I used to be that guy. I used to be the one. I mean, the chosen one. I felt God appointed me to make a difference on this earth. I felt like Jon Connor. I can’t escape my destiny which is to save lives from something that is greater than us...It’s funny... I need to be saved now. I need help. I don’t think life comes with a life line to call upon a favor from God. Last time I checked, he has selective listening.

They say God is either preparing you for something, or testing you. If He is testing me, I missed the memo that today would be the day. If He is preparing me, is it wrong for me to ask what for? Is it wrong for me to pray for what I need, even if I already have enough? If You lay me down to sleep, I pray my for sanity to keep. If I should die before I awake, I can’t imagine hell being worse than this. I guess when I opened my eyes, I woke up on the wrong side of my faith, today. If these emotions are a wake up call from this living nightmare, why can’t I fall awake?

This is what depression is. It is me taking advice from my negative alter-ego. It is the other voices in my voices speaking on my behalf.

These voices lie to my friends and tell them I’m okay.

These voices lie to me, and tell me happiness is out of my reach

These voices laugh at my failure

These voices shatter my confidence when success is on the horizon

These voices are the new me

The way everything keeps playing out, I question how long I can receive this barrage of pain. It’s to the point that sad days are better than depressed days. The depressed days are better than suicidal days. My mind must be tainted when I think I am a coward for not having the balls to do it.

You know, it...

The scary part is how easy it is to hide. I remain invisible in the eyes of those who are happy. It’s scary that no one can see that I’m drowning. It hurts to know that no one can share my pain, because a strong set of shoulders would be nice to help carry the weight.

Everyone is in love and has affection in abundance. Me? I’m only intimate with the floor. I can’t seem to pry myself from the hug of defeat. If being single with success is wrong, then I don’t want to be right. No longer do I want to be faithful to the bad memories, I’m going to cheat with positive experiences. This thought always sounds nice until I remember these uplifting words are only rumors. Words without meaning are promises without actions.

It seems everyone else has it easy. Those who do wrong seem to have it all. I was once told I would pay the price for my sins, but the prices were never mentioned. Those who are evil have sins that gain them rewards, while I am paying for mine ten-fold. The debt is too much to carry, but somehow Jesus carried his cross up the hill.

Bruises. Cuts. They don’t begin to show the scarring inside of me. Despite the internal bleeding, I have the strength to say my heart is in good condition. But if I’m the only one who is pretty inside, then I’m the only one who is ugly on the outside. Everyone is threatening me with their thoughts. Caught up in the court of public opinion, when will they judge themselves on a standard they judge me. I can’t speak the answer for others, so I need to leave. I need to get away, but drugs are not an escape. Alcohol is not my friend. Reality is not the truth, and I am not myself. If I have no identity, how can I be the person I am supposed to be. Not being myself is like slapping God in the face, but I just don’t know how.

I’m normal, but everyone else is weird. The irony is, I understand everyone; their motives, their habits, their personality. The hard part is no one understands me, so I keep asking for a sign. As fate would have it, the world’s sign language has a massive middle finger pointed back at me. When the rain doesn’t fall so hard anymore, maybe, then, will I build an ark big enough to fit me and my dreams in it. Maybe I could sail away on the blue carpet we call the ocean. Until then, I just want to cross this broken bridge. But the current underneath the bridge is too strong to swim under, so I drown in my self-pity. And this is where I will stay in the meantime. The world came to me as a take down. I played the part to give up. I let this happen. Now, I’ll lie in this bed I made, and pray that these sheets protect me from the cold.

Whoever will read this, just know, I want to defeat this mental enemy, but it is bigger than Goliath. It is almost as if the more I mature, my problems grow with me. And as I grow, my faith shrinks. The psychology of my mind is now made up of emotions, with nothing logical to steer me clear of harm's way. The aftermath of years of self-abuse is at the forefront. Hopefully the last care I give in this world will be the one directed to saving myself. Please pray for me.